


Washed Away

by Trixy_BuenaSuerte



Category: Bleach
Genre: Aizen is misunderstood, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magic, Arrancar, Espada (Bleach) - Freeform, Espadas being turned into Humans, Evil Soul Society, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Good Guy Aizen, Humans, Loosely Follows Timeline, M/M, Magic In Norse Mythology, Potions, Pre-Winter War (Bleach), Slightly - Freeform, Timeline What Timeline, Winter War, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-03-16 11:04:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3485873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trixy_BuenaSuerte/pseuds/Trixy_BuenaSuerte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em><strong>Original Summary:</strong><br/>  </em>
  <br/>
  <em>It would have been the prefect plan, if Grimmjow hadn't gotten away.</em>
</p><p><strong>New Summary:</strong><br/>Aizen rebelled, the Soul Society wants him dead, and the Arrancars must be destroyed. That's it, that's the story. Anyone who bothers to asks gets told exactly that before being advised to continue on with their day and never again question why Aizen turned his back on everything he had. </p><p>The only life he knew. </p><p>Everyone he loved. </p><p>And they do. </p><p>They continue on with their lives even though doubt stews in the back of their heads.</p><p>Forgetting that nothing is ever that black and white.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> _"...the art and science of causing change in consciousness in accordance with will."_  
>  — **Dion Fortune**

It is a cold, rainy day in  _The World of the Living_  that greets Grimmjow as he stumbles out of the  _garganta_.

Thunder roars overhead, cracking and clashing, while lightning flashes, splitting the sky. The weather is dreadful but the turquoise-haired man pays it no mind as he staggers blindly through the rain. It’s the farthest thing in his mind as he clutches at his stomach and struggles to move as severe pain assaults him again and again.

_Something’s wrong._

Curses flow steadily out of his mouth as he leans against the wall of an old abandoned building. He curses the heavens and the earth but most of all cursing the day one Szayel-Aporro Granz had ever been  _‘born’._

Tremors wrack his body and he tries his best to keep from screaming in pain as he feels something shift under his hands. He can  _feel_  his organs rearrange themselves where his hands are pressed over his bare stomach and it’s all because of that red liquid the pink-haired bastard had shoved down his throat.

_He hadn’t wanted it._

God knows, he had not wanted it but that self proclaimed scientist had caught him by surprise—had gotten Nnoitra to hold him down, to pin him to a metal table while he forced a vile of strange liquid past his lips. He would have spit it out—he _should_ have spit it out but the bastard hadn’t given him the chance—had blocked his nose and mouth until he had no choice but to swallow.

He shoves off the wall when the pain lessens and tries his best to find some place to hide. Somewhere he can wait this—whatever  _this_ is—all out without having to worry about anyone finding him. Without worrying about  _Szayel_ finding him.

He doesn’t make it far.

Three steps and he falls, landing on his hands and knees as pain sears through his whole body. By then the only thing keeping him from screaming in pain is his pride (and fear of discovery) as he claws at muddy ground with the desperate need to hold on to something.

His insides feel like they’re being ripped out, like someone’s opened him up and is clawing around inside—yanking out organ after organ. Though when one of his hands goes down to try to soothe away the pain, he finds nothing—no blood, no spilling organs, just a slowly closing Hollow hole. 

And there’s nothing he can do to stop it, not without going back to Szayel and demanding he reverse it. But there’s no way he’s going back to that psychopath.

_“You might want to sit down soon.”_

The scientist had told him in lieu of explanation when he’d finally broken free of the Spoon.

At first the pain had been nothing but a tingle, a small throb easily push to the back of his mind as he continued to demand answers while trying to hide the fear coursing through him at the eerie answers he got as he stared the other down. Though Szayel liked to pretend otherwise, nothing he ever did was done without justified reasoning.

Nothing was ever just done in a moment of insanity.   

Something was going on that Grimmjow didn’t know.

Aizen was up to something.   

_“Why?”_

When Szayel gave him a sympathetic look he knew he hadn’t managed to keep his discomfort hidden and it only stroked the flames of anger coursing through him along with the pain. And he would have pounced, would have ripped into the pink twit if Nnoitra’s voice hadn’t stopped him.

_“Hold on there, kitty cat, you need to take it easy.”_

Grimmjow may be mad but he wasn’t suicidal so when the taller Espada moved to stand in front of the other he turned instead. He bolted from the room as quick as he could because he knew that, having become one of Szayel’s experiments, there wouldn’t be another chance to escape. 

What had followed afterwards had been a blur of agonizing pain and fiery hot anger as Grimmjow raced down the halls and he can’t really remember how he ended up on the ground, in the middle of an alley, in  _The World of the Living_  but he knows he needs to get moving before the others—Shinigami or Espada—come looking for him.

The best he can do though is roll onto his back and even that seems to be too much. He manages though, but by then all he can do is stare up at the dark skies, blinking the rain out of his eyes and even that gets to be too much soon enough.

So he closes them and, with trembling hands, he touches the edges of his Hollow Hole. Or what left of it because it’s no more than an inch thick now. If he wasn’t so tired and in so much pain, he would be mad—completely and utterly pissed. He would be shouting and screaming and going on a destructive rampage because this is  _his_ Hollow hole, damnit!

It’s what makes him an Espada!

Better than humans and Shinigamis alike. 

_And now it’s disappearing._

He lies there for much longer than he can care to remember—slipping in and out of consciousness as the pain comes in waves—when suddenly the rain stops pelting him. He can feel the shadow fall over him at the same time as the rain stops and he sluggishly opens his eyes.

Not that it matters because the world is nothing but one big giant blur as his eyes refuse to focus. Everything’s a blur of orange and black and he starts as a cold hand touches his now solid stomach.

“It’s gone.”

The voice that speaks is familiar but he can’t put a face to it.

_‘It’s gone?’_

His thoughts circle around those words as blackness begins to creep into his vision. And he lets it swallow him eagerly. Anything to stop the pain still wracking his body

“Are you sure it's him?”


	2. Ch 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _'Oh my, how did this happen?'_

He wakes to the sound of chirping. The bird's song is sweet and soft and happy and right next to his fucking ear.

"Would you shut up?" he hisses, one hand moving a pillow over his head while the other reaches out to swat the annoying bird away. The poor thing yelps as he actually manages to hit it. The feathers are soft and silky on his fingertips as he sends it flying out the open window.

_Wait..._

"What?" he mumbles, confused, as he peers out the window just as the annoying little bird stops it's descent inches away from the ground with desperate flaps of it’s wings. It flies up to the window again, chirping happily as it glides around him, uncaring of it’s almost death by his hands. “The fuck?”

He rears back into the room, growling when the bird follows him in. It perches itself on the window sill, happy and content and still singing that annoying song. With a huff he pushes it back out the window and slams it shut.

It’s back at the window in a blink of an eye. Sad chirps fill the air, muffled by the closed window. He watches the bird tap pitifully against the glass as it’s song turns sad. 

“Fuck off.”

Turning from the window he looks around the room. Already knowing that he’s not where he should be, he doesn’t react much to the off-white walls and sparsely decorated room. Nor does react to the figures standing at the door to the small room.

Instead he shifts uncomfortably on the bed, face scrunching up as a heavy weight in his gut makes itself know. Some long dead and buried instinct keeps him tense, keeps him from pushing as his stomach is begging him to and making, what he’s sure will be, a mess of the bed.

“I…,” he starts only to pause as the weight in his guts takes a turn for the slightly painful. It’s different from last night’s pain though. It’s not the stabbing pain of his organs rearranging themselves but more of a throb. He tries the best to keep the pain off his face as he crawls off the bed but standing only makes it worse. He can’t stop from reaching down, hand ghosting down his stomach where it stops when he feels _solid skin_.

The previous day comes back to him in a rush, knocking him off his feet and back onto the bed. He can’t tell if sitting makes the pain better or worse but he ignores it, and the weight in his gut, as he buries his head in his hands.

_He’s going to kill Szayel._

“Are…Are you okay, Grimmjow?”

_If he doesn’t end up killed first, that is._

He looks up from his hands, watching as Ichigo Kurosaki, of all people, eases cautiously into the room. His usual scowl is in place but Grimmjow spots the badly hidden concern as well. He chooses his words carefully as the boy comes to stand in front of him.

“No,” he decides on for lack of anything better to say that won’t get him killed. He’s not at the top of his game. He _feels_ weak, achy, sluggish. Every shift of his body brings a new pain to the forefront of his mind. His back aches.

His shoulder throbs.

_His body just hurts._

He doesn’t need someone to tell him he’s at the complete mercy of Ichigo’s whims.

So he just sits there because he can’t exactly fly off the handle like he wants to. Can’t punch and scream and kick because he’d probably end up hurting himself. Either that or Ichigo will lose whatever patience or pity or whatever it is that’s stopping him from killing Grimmjow and do just that.

“Are you hurt?” a black haired man asks from the door, drawing Grimmjow’s gaze to him. Grimmjow’s hands go to his stomach without any conscious thought, fingertips gingerly pushing at the skin right under his belly button.

The slight stab of pain caused from the action causes him to hiss.

“Let me see,” the man says, entering the room despite Ichigo’s protests. His father, Grimmjow realizes as he spots the family resemblances just as the man brushes past Ichigo. His first thought is to tell the old man to piss off but the look of warning Ichigo gives him makes him think better of it. “Lay back, feet flat on the ground.”

It’s Ichigo that pushes him flat on the bed, hands pining him down, when Grimmjow just gives the man a look that tell him just where he can shove his demands. Then it’s the old man’s hands on his stomach that stop him from resisting. They’re cold against his skin. Strange as they brush over where his hollow hole used to be and press down.

“No, wait,” Grimmjow yelps, squirming under their hands just as the weight in his guts comes back to the forefront of his mind. “Don’t, I gotta…I need to.”

“Oh,” the old man says, realization dawning on him as he pulls back as if burned. He drags Grimmjow out from under Ichigo’s grip and onto his feet with an embarrassed laugh. “That’s right, you’re not used to being human,” the man says awkwardly as he steers him out of the room. “The bathroom’s this way. Come downstairs when you’re done.”

_Human?_

It’s the only thought running through his head as he stares into the toilet. The water crystal clear and the pain in his stomach just begging him to stop stalling and just go.

But the old man can’t be right, can he?

There’s no possible way he can be.

He died!

He’s dead.

He’s— _Szayel’s new Guinea Pig._

With a curse he draws his hands back to his stomach and just feels. Feels the dips and planes of his abs and belly button. Feels the soft skin and muscle that give under the harsh digging of his fingers. With his skin no longer protected by _Hierro,_ his nails leave angry red marks in their wake as he trails them over his new, unblemished skin. 

_Maybe he can just claw his Hollow hole back in._

The lower his fingers go, the more insistent the pain in his stomach gets until he finally just decides to get on with it.

He’s knows the human pee, everyone does, but he doesn’t know how uncomfortable it is or how humans know it’s time to go. At least not until now and, by then, his only saving grace is that old man seems to know just what’s going on before he can make a mess out of the poor man’s house.

Once that awkward adventure is done with, Grimmjow exits the restroom to find Ichigo waiting for him. The boy’s scowl is still in place and Grimmjow wants nothing more to knock it off.

“Because following someone to the restroom isn’t creepy as fuck,” he comments as he brushes past the boy and heads for the stairs and, hopefully, freedom. They haven’t killed him, _yet_ and he’s not about to stick around until they decided to.

“I don’t trust you,” the boy says, hand going to Grimmjow’s shoulder and bringing him to a halt. “I don’t know what you and Aizen are planning but if you so much as touch my family, I will kill you.”

“What’s stopping you now?” Grimmjow taunts, stepping into the boy’s personal space, caution thrown to the wind. “Still afraid you can’t take me?”

“I don’t kill _humans_ ,” Ichigo taunts back, smirk on his lips as he brushes past him, shoulders knocking.

Grimmjow watches him go with his own scowl. Hands clenched into fists, he lashes out with everything he has, knuckles crashing into drywall with a wall shaking _‘crack’_. The pain that radiates from his knuckle and up his arm makes him swear.

He stares at his splits knuckles and bemoans his new fragility. He hadn’t even managed to make a damn dent on the thing but he can already feel the weak flesh swell. Cautiously he flexes his fingers, making sure everything moves with little to no pain before brushing off the injury.

_It should heal soon enough._

He’s taking all of this fairly well, he realizes as he makes his way down the stairs. But that could be because he worked off the brunt of his anger during his exited from Las Noches. He knows he killed at least ten low level Arrancars, taken them down by the sheer strengthen of his Reiatsu as the pain had caused it to fluctuate wildly.

Aizen will not be pleased. Not at all. When he sees the havoc he wreaked on his way out, he’ll have a fit but, the way Grimmjow sees it, the bastard deserved it.

Maybe next time he’ll pick someone else as his guinea pig.

~oOo~

“I am not pleased.”

The words, spoken calmly, resonate around the near empty room, loud and clear. It takes a lot for Szayel to _not_ quake in front of his lord as he stands to attention. He’s a respectable distance from the throne, head ducked and eyes on the floor as he bears the weight of his Lord’s anger.

“Please explain to me how you not only managed to botch a simple experiment,” Aizen says, seated upon his throne with a calm and collect look on his features, but there’s fire in his eyes. Fire directed solely on him and Szayel mentally curses up, down, left, and right. “But managed to lose your subject as well.”

“My…my Lord,” he starts, tripping over his words in his haste to plead his case. “It…it is not my fault. Grimmjow refused to cooperate. I couldn’t—”

“Maybe you would have had his cooperation if you had bothered to inform him of just what you intended,” Aizen hisses, some of the anger he’s feeling finally bleeding into his voice. Even though he stays seated, he looms over Szayel as he asks, “Did it ever occur to you that some explanation would be needed when dealing with sentient and intelligent beings?”

“With all due respect, my lord,” Szayel begins, riling at the slight against his abilities. He makes the mistake of looking up in his anger, eyes locking with Aizen’s. “While definitely sentient, that miserable excuse of an Espada can hardly be called intelligent.”

“Grimmjow is _your_ superior,” Aizen snarls, cutting of him off and this time Szayel really does start to tremble as Aizen’s gaze burns through him. “You will respect him and any other Espada above you.”

“Of…of course, my Lord,” Szayel rushes to agree, head ducked down again as he nervously wrings his hand. “I’m sorry, my Lord. I just assumed that it might be best for everyone all around if Grimmjow was caught off guard. Rather than having to go through the trouble of capturing and subduing the bas—Sexta if the plan was not to his liking. Especially, since, once knowing what the potion would do to him, it’s effects would be weaken considerably if he chose to not want it.

“I didn’t anticipate that the potion would fail to sedate him,” Szayel explains, looking up at Aizen with wide, sad eyes swimming with guilt. “Or that he would still have the strength and energy to escape. I underestimated his will to avoid whatever fate was in store for him.”

“His will?” Aizen questions, anger beginning to fade as he sees that Szayel’s regret and apology are true. Not that he’ll let the pink-haired Espada off that easy. “The potion was chosen for it’s promise of success whether or not Grimmjow willed it.”

“Your Sexta, My Lord, is a strong willed individual,” Szayel says, a sad sigh leaving him as he runs a hand through his hair. “While the potion succeeded—albeit with a bit of a struggle—what we essentially did was rise someone from the dead without stopping to consider if Grimmjow wanted to be brought back to life.”

Aizen says nothing to that. Choosing instead to consider the truth in that statement, Aizen just watches Szayel return to fidgeting in his spot. His eyes follow his movements without really seeing what he’s doing. His mind elsewhere as silence falls.

_So Grimmjow wanted to stay dead._

While unexpected, it’s not surprising. Grimmjow’s dislike of humans is no secret. Nor is his dislike for the Shinigami. Really, they should have realized Grimmjow would have been resistant to the effects of the potions whether he knew about it or not but the possibilities had been too great.

Possibilities that are now at the danger of never been fulfilled because Grimmjow isn’t here.

His in the world of the living, human, and at the mercy of any Shinigami that happens upon him.

“I want him brought back, now.”

“I would not advise it, my Lord”

The words don’t come from Szayel but from Tōsen as he enters the room, steps as silent as when he arrived.  

“Grimmjow is human now,” he says and a raised eyebrow is the only answer he gets. An unvoiced question asking why that would matter at all. “The moment he steps foot in Hueco Mundo, you will have a herd at Hollows at your door,” he continues as he moves to stand before Aizen and bows. "Hueco Mundo is no more a safe place for him than The World of the Living."

"So you would have me leave him there?" Aizen asks, anger beginning to rise again at the thought. "Write him off as a failure and abandon him to his fate?"

"Of course not, my Lord," Tōsen soothes, unfazed by Aizen's rising anger. Szayel, for his part discreetly moves back a few steps, unwilling to get caught in the crossfire of what is looking to be yet another argument over Grimmjow. "I was simply implying that Grimmjow cannot be brought back."

"So what would you have me do?" Aizen asks, carefully keeping his temper in check. The bite is still in his words, though. The sarcasm thick in a way that more than convey his annoyance at being told what to do.  

"Contact Urahara."

 


	3. Ch 2

 

If there was ever a time where he wished his eyes could set something on fire, it would be now. Glaring at the offending item set in front of him, he wants nothing more than for it to catch fire. It can’t, of course, so instead he sits there, at the kitchen table, hands curled into fists, as he glares at a plate of food.

“You have to eat, Grimmjow,” the dark haired man— _Ichigo’s Father, Isshin_ —says from his place at the head of the table. All Grimmjow does is turn his glare Isshin’s way, hoping that maybe _he’ll_ catch on fire. “Your body needs it.”

Isshin doesn’t catch fire, of course, so instead Grimmjow picks up a chopstick and spears it through his food as viciously as he can. He can’t name whatever it is he spears. He hasn’t eaten human food—or any type of food for that matter—since he was human.

_But he is one now, isn’t he?_

Really, it’s only because his stomach is begging rather loudly that he gives in and brings the food to his mouth. It’s delicious, tasteful, better than anything he can ever remember eating—not that he can remember anything of being human—so, begrudgingly he digs into his food. Albeit with his glare still firmly set on his face.

Once his plate is empty, he shoves away from the table and stands. Fully intending to finally make a break for it he turns, only to find Isshin standing expectantly in front of him.

“Alright then, now that the necessarily human needs have been fulfilled it’s time to see what’s been done to you,” Isshin says, hands going to Grimmjow’s shoulders. He tries to resist, he really does but his body still feels like it’s been dragged through hell and back so he can’t fight as Isshin drags him away.

“I don’t need your help,” Grimmjow snarls instead as he’s dragged into a room that reminds him of the infirmary back in Las Noches.

“Yes, of course you don’t,” Isshin says as he leads him towards the bed and gently shoves him onto it. “You’re definitely, more than capable of figuring out just how you went from volatile Arrancar to slightly less unstable human all by yourself.”

“Are you mocking me?” Grimmjow snarls, standing from the bed. He most definitely feels mocked and the look Isshin sends him lets him know that he should. “What would you even know about this? You’re nothing but a lousy human.”

“You think I’m a human?”

“What else would you be?”  

“But you know Ichigo’s a Shingami?”

“Yeah, I’ve fought him before,” Grimmjow says confusion beginning to grow as they talk in circles. Isshin no longer seems intent on performing a full physical and Grimmjow’s torn between telling him to get back on track so they can get this over with or continuing to keep the man talking so there won’t be a physical.

His last encounter with Szayel has left more than little wary towards anything science-y.

“So, even knowing Ichigo’s partially Shinigami, your first assumption is that his _father_ is just a regular human?” Isshin asks just to make sure that they’re both on the same page. At Grimmjow’s nod Isshin’s head tilts to the side as he asks, “And you won’t accept that I’m anything else?”

“You can’t be,” Grimmjow snarls, offended by the tone of Isshin’s voice as it obviously implies he’s not the brightest crayon in the box. “There’s no _Reiatsu_ around you.”

“It’s the _Gigai_ ,” Isshin clarifies, pointing towards himself. “It hides it.”

“A _Gigai_?” Grimmjow questions, one brow going up in obvious disbelief.

“You still don’t believe me, do you?”

“Nope.”

“You want proof?”

“Yup.”

“Are we really going to do this?” Isshin asks, giving Grimmjow a look he can’t understand. At Grimmjow’s blank stare he sighs and tiredly rubs his forehead. “Seriously, what is Aizen even doing if he hasn’t told you this much?”

With a shake of his head, Isshin reaches into his pocket, pulling a small yellow pill from it.

“I swear Aizen hasn’t learned a thing about keeping people in the know,” Isshin mumbles as he press the pills to his lips. Pausing just short of putting the pill in his mouth he asks, “Do we really have to do this or will you just accept me telling you I’m a Shinigami without showing you.”

Grimmjow, for his part just continues to give him that one brow raised look.

“Oh come on, kid,” Isshin says ignoring Grimmjow’s indignant yelp at being called kid as he continues, “I really don’t want to swallow this thing. Do you know how hard it is to get a _Giko_ out of your _Gigai_ if it decides it likes it in there and hijacks your _Gigai_?”  

“Ah, no?”

“Of course you don’t,” Isshin mumbles, annoyed as he eyes the little yellow pill. “I swear to god, if you run off with my body I will hunt you down and kill,” he threatens the pill and Grimmjow actually takes a second

to wonder if it can hear him as it begins to tremble in Isshin’s grip. “Now the, let’s do this.”

“Wait,” Grimmjow says straightening from his slouch as he begins to realize that maybe having Isshin out in all his shinigami glory might not be a good idea—that’s if he is one of course. And while he still kind of doubts it, he’s not one to press his luck when he’s this weak. “So you really are a Shinigami?” Grimmjow asks. Leaning back against the bed, he crosses his arms as he looks Isshin up and down. He’s obvious unimpressed with what he sees as he mutters, “You have got to be shitting me. Why haven’t you killed me yet, then?”

“Aizen really needs to get his shit together,” Isshin mumbles pocketing the pill since it seems Grimmjow’s willing to believe him for the moment. “Besides that, you’re human now. Shinigami don’t kill humans unless it’s for a really good reason.”

“I count being one of Aizen’s men reason enough.”

“No, still not good enough,” Isshin corrects as he turns to rumble through a drawer. Drawing a stethoscope from it he motions for Grimmjow to climb back onto the bed. “We’re better off trying to extract information from you than killing you.”

“I’ll never talk,” Grimmjow snarls even as he climbs onto the bed. He tenses at the touch of the metal. The cold of it seeps into his skin even through the layer of his borrowed shirt—his jacket and pants had been caked in mud last night if he remembers correctly.

He’s now wearing a light blue t-shirt and a pair of gray sweats that he’s only just realizing means someone changed his clothes when he was unconscious. Trying to ignore the blush crawling up his neck with his dawning embarrassment, he zeros in on Isshin’s movements.

“Are you trying to convince me to kill you?” Isshin asks eyes sharp and cold metal still pressed into Grimmjow’s chest, right above his heart. 

_Too close._

“No, yes, maybe,” Grimmjow stutters out as his heart skips a beat. Breathe quickening he shies away from the slowly warming metal. Mind racing, he struggles to calm his hammering heart as every instinct in his body screams that he’s in danger.

_That there’s going to be blood spilled. Blood and guts and pain and he has no way to defend himself. No weapon. He’s weak, vulnerable. He needs to run, get away._

“Hey, hey, easy now,” Isshin coos, dropping the chest piece and easing away from Grimmjow as he see the panicked look on his face. “You’re fine, you’re okay. I’m not going to hurt you. Deep breathes now.”

Struggling to breathe he watches Isshin with a confused yet cautious look.

“Figures you’d be plagued by PTSD.”

“W-what?”

~oOo~

“Isshin has him.”

Urahara’s voice echoes across the silent room. Filling the ears of all the Espadas gathered in the meeting room save for one. They all feel his absence keenly as they stare at the screen containing Urahara’s visage.

“As far as I can tell, no other Shinigami has been informed of his presence,” Urahara says, lips set in a frown as his eyes roam over all the occupants in the room. They linger on a few before snapping back to Aizen, not that anyone can see them under the rim of his hat. “What he plans to do with him is anyone’s guess. Isshin’s always been a loose cannon.”

“Can you secure him and watch over him until we know just what he will be capable of?” Aizen asks, standing before the screen with Gin and Tōsen at his sides. For the most part, he ignores the Espadas gathered at the table behind him, but keeps any ear out for any whispered objections to the plan. “We cannot bring him back as he is.”

“I figured as much when no rescue mission was launched,” Urahara says, sighing deeply as he realizes he’ll have to clean up yet another one of Aizen’s messes. “Listen, I’ll do what I can but getting Isshin to hand Grimmjow over might be a bit difficult.”

“And why would that be?”

“He’s taken a liking to the kid,” Urahar says, not shying away from the dangerous note in Aizen’s tone. The Espada’s though, shrink further into their seats. “You know him. Hand him an injured Kitten and he’ll nursed it back to health no matter how unlikely the chances of survival might be.”

“But Grimmjow isn’t injured,” Aizen says, daring Urahara to say something to the contrary but the man just shrugs. Once again not the least bit intimated by the agitated Lord.

“He may not be hurt but something drastic obviously happen to him,” Urahara states, moving his hat up so he can give Aizen a pointed look. “And, sure, while it’s not as drastic as what you lot did to Shinji and the others it’s still pretty severe enough to warrant careful observation should side effects appear.”

“You know the spreading of the infection was unintentional,” Aizen grounds out between clench teeth.

“Ninety percent of it was,”Urahara corrects, pulling his hat back down to cover his eyes. “The first ten percent of it was you lot seeing how far you could push your luck.”

“We were trying to find a cure,” Aizen snarls, defensive anger raising as he glares at the screen. “And the only way to ensure it would be a hundred percent effective was to infect a few civilian and administer the cure.”

“Which backfired on you when you first failed to properly secure your subjects and then again when the cure failed to do what it had been designed for,” Urahara reminds him, still calm, cool, and collected in the face of Aizen’s anger. “And now we find ourselves in the same situation all over again. Your test subject on the loose and you once again asking me to clean up your mess.”

“Grimmjow is not carrying an infection.”

“As far as you know,” Urahara contradicts, eyes going to the pink-haired scientist cowering in his seat from the many glares being thrown in his direction. “The potion used to turn Grimmjow wasn’t even of your own creation. How sure are you that the pink one didn’t hide something malevolent in it?”

“I would never!” Szayel yells, fear momentarily forgotten as he shoots up from his seat. He gets many disbelieve looks of course but he brushes them off as he locks eyes with Urahara through the screen. “I maybe many things but not vindictive without just cause. Grimmjow has done nothing to me do deserve such. I was simply following your orders, my Lord, when I manufactured the potion and administered it to the Sexta.”

“Be that as it may, I will keep a close eye on him,” Urahara says, not taking his accusations back as he turns his gaze to Aizen. “But be warned, if Grimmjow shows any type of infection or malevolent side effects, he will be dealt with.”

“Of course,” Aizen agrees even though he in no way plans to let that happen.

The screen goes blank with those words. Staring at it for a second longer he straightens his back and sets his face into his patent unimpressed look. Once it’s in place he turns back to his men. Eyes over his gathered men, he makes sure to keep his cool as he says words he wishes he never had to.

“We must prepare for the inevitable.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hello My Lovies**
> 
> _Sorry for the long absence but I've been a busy bee without a computer (I actually haven't had one for well over a year) but I finally bought on with my no-existent income!_
> 
> _Yay!!!_
> 
> _Of course, I'm not just here to in form you that that I finally got a computer. I'm actually writing this in the hopes of finding some poor soul to be my Beta. I need someone dedicated enough to trudge to the pile of written word vomit that are my spelling and grammatically incorrect stories._
> 
> _I can't offer much in compensation expect maybe a story written just for you and my eternal gratitude. So if anyone is interested let me know!_
> 
> _Love, Trixy_


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